


It's All Greek To Me

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Art Heists, Catastrophic Collateral Damage, Gen, Orchids, POV Neal, murders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23037589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Peter and Neal are desperately trying to nab some homicidal art thieves. Somehow, orchids play a very crucial role in saving Neal’s life. Confused? Read to find out the real story.
Relationships: Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	It's All Greek To Me

Peter and I were having lunch at an outdoor café near the Federal Building. It’s early March, a month on the calendar that could be as bipolar in nature as a psych patient. This afternoon it was pleasantly mild with the outdoor temperature hovering in the upper sixties. Tomorrow, Mother Nature might turn snarky and send a nor’easter through the metropolitan area causing the mercury to plummet well below freezing.

Of course, this is a working lunch for us. We have been diligently probing into a rash of art thefts meandering up the Eastern seaboard that left a trail of dead bodies behind. Just one month ago, the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC had lost two Renoirs. Three weeks later, a Matisse, a Picasso, and a van Gough had gone missing from The Baltimore Museum of Art, and just a few days ago, New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art discovered that a Monet, a Manet, and a Cezanne had disappeared.

The FBI is convinced that these brazen and deadly thefts were orchestrated with the help of inside sources, and that theory was cemented when a night security guard at each of the institutions suddenly disappeared from sight until their dead bodies were stumbled upon on a side street with their throats slashed. The actual thieves were not leaving any loose ends dangling. Dead men with their vocal chords severed couldn’t talk.

This afternoon, Peter is beyond frustrated. “Can you ask your little buddy to put his ear to the ground?” he asks as a last resort.

I give a deep sigh. “Moz has been preoccupied and he’s actually going out of town in just a few days. Don’t you listen when your wife talks to you, Peter?” I scold.

“Right, right,” the light finally dawns for my handler. “Mozzie and El are going down to the City of Brotherly Love to commune with nature.”

“They are more specifically going to attend the Philadelphia Flower Show,” I say patiently. “It’s an annual big deal in Philly and Mozzie is actually daring to put a toe in the water and enter one of his horticultural specimens. He’s both excited and terrified, so he needs Elizabeth for moral support.”

“Somehow, I find it hard to picture that little bald dude puttering around in a garden with a watering can in his hand while inspecting his little posies for aphids,” Peter chortles condescendingly.

I frown at Peter’s disrespect. “Do not mock, Peter. I’ll have you know that Moz is a dedicated indoor horticulturist and he’s into exotic orchids. He’s got them all over his safe houses and he treats them lovingly like they’re his children.”

Peter shrugs, “Well, I guess even the weirdest gnomes need a hobby.”

“I think this discussion is done,” I say belligerently.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter and I make no more headway on the case that day, and I’m glad to escape the pressure cooker tension and return to my loft, which, by the way, is conspicuously void of any green plants. Mozzie has made many attempts to convert me to his passion. Over the years, there has been a steady stream of what my friend called Orchidaceae specimens that foolishly took up residence on my shelf and end tables. At the beginning of their visits, they stood proud and robust in ornate ceramic pots with tongue-twisting labels like Cymbidium, Cattleya, Dendrobium, and Phalaenopsis. Mozzie told me they were perennial epiphytes whose natural habitat is moss hanging precariously on tree limbs in the wild. Therefore, I concluded those colorful guests should be hardy little cusses who needed little attention because they were used to taking care of themselves. Well, Mozzie must have spoiled his brood because, one by one, they perished, most likely from neglect. Who knew you had to occasionally water and fertilize them like a doting mother hen?

Tonight, I had just uncorked a bottle of Bordeaux and settled down with my sketchpad when I detected a shuffling noise outside my door. When I investigated, I found a large cardboard box covered with tissue paper outside on the landing and Mozzie struggling up the stairs with its twin.

“So, what are you bringing me?” I ask curiously as I try to manhandle the bulky carton from his arms.

“I’ve got this, Neal,” Mozzie immediately objects as he protectively hugs his burden and pushes past me in a rush. Momentarily, he’s darting right back out to fetch the second box and set it with its mate on my dining table. I cross my arms and stand back, and, although I’m curious, I know my friend moves at his own pace. When he deems the time is right, I’ll become enlightened. Right now, I don’t know if I should be happy or worried about this state of affairs unfolding in my space. It doesn’t take long for the fear to set in. As Mozzie begins removing objects from his mystery boxes, I am horrified and appalled as I spy a steady stream of exquisite orchids line up like soldiers on the table. They may as well be facing a firing squad if they stay with me because Mozzie has just signed their death warrants.

“You can’t leave those things here, Moz,” I immediately object.

“Now, Neal, calm down,” Mozzie says reassuringly. “My little family of orchids is only staying for a week, and I have meticulously attached a precise list of instructions for their care directly on each of their containers. I’ve also brought their diluted fertilizer in a spray bottle and distilled water for sustenance. You just have to warm it a bit before feeding them. So, easy-peasy, no sweat, although it wouldn’t hurt to talk to them occasionally.”

Then my exuberant buddy begins the introductions like a well-mannered host at a wedding reception receiving line. “This huge purple Cattleya is Hector, and beside him is pale delicate Arachne, so named because she is a trailing Phalaenopsis with speckled little flowers that resemble spiders. These two brilliant yellow guests are Dendrobiums—besotted Paris and beautiful Helen of Troy.” Moz continues naming names from Greek mythology that he has cavalierly bestowed on various species which, to my untrained eye, resemble bats, grizzled and wrinkled old men with goiters, and some that mimicked a woman’s private lady parts, if you get my drift.

“Moz,” I plead, “this is like asking me to commit mass murder.”

“Neal, it’s only for seven days,” Mozzie replies breezily. “Even you would find it hard to do much harm in a week.”

“Can’t you just go down to Philadelphia with your orchid on the day of the judging?” I beg.

Mozzie tries to justify his absence. “I’m taking Persephone down to Philly a few days early to acclimate. She’s a rare black and white Cattleya and a bit persnickety. I named her after the Greek goddess who spends half of her life above ground and the other half in the underworld with Hades. Light/dark—get the significance?”

“Whatever,” I heave a put upon sigh.

“Don’t take on that martyred persona, Neal. I’ve done a lot for you over the years,” Mozzie huffs.

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Of course, you have. Sorry to act like an unappreciative killjoy, Moz. I’ll try to do right by your little pals, I swear.”

Mozzie looks pacified for the moment, so I take the opportunity to push the envelope. I ask him for a name—somebody in the know about art heists, and specifically, one that occurred recently right here in our fair city.

“Try the little deli on the High Line near 6th Avenue,” he suggests. “Ask for one of the meat cutters named Genovese. He always knows somebody who knows somebody else, so maybe he can point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks, Moz,” I say warmly.

“It’s the Suit who should be thanking me,” Mozzie replies. “He’s the one with the unsolved case, right? I guess we can call it even since I’m commandeering his wife for a week. Do you think he’s the jealous type?”

“If he is, I’ll just reassure him that you’re the epitome of a consummate gentleman who would never stoop to stealing the affections of his wife.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mozzie left the next day with Elizabeth riding shotgun, and I grudgingly have breakfast while a pantheon of Greek gods and goddesses stare at me across the table. I swear the blooms on the plants resemble faces—some inquisitive, some distinctly haughty, and some judgmental. I find myself staring back and mumbling inane things like, “We’ll get through this together.”

It’s a relief to escape their scrutiny after my morning cup of coffee. I head to the office where I tell Peter about a possible source who works in a delicatessen. He agrees that I should pursue this, so my anklet is swapped out for a tracking watch on my wrist that also has the ability to transmit every word I say when the stem is depressed. I now have my marching orders. I am to locate this Genovese fellow and make him aware that I can fence certain purloined items that need to make their way up the food chain. Hopefully, he will be passing this intel on to the actual thieves, and I’ll get a call soon.

Nothing happens for three long days. During the tense wait for something to break, Ares, Aphrodite, Artemis, and I bond. Demeter is a little harder to win over, and Athena is downright bitchy. Hestia, too, is somewhat frigid. I do some research and discover that the Greeks venerated her as the goddess of the home and fertility, so maybe she’s saving herself for the right man, and, apparently, that isn’t me. Nonetheless, I soldier on, giving my guests their vitamins and sustenance and having deep philosophical discussions about the world and its problems. It’s sort of a one-sided conversation, but occasionally I think I detect a bit of empathy. I remember to give each of their pots exactly one quarter turn every morning so they get their fair share of the filtered light from the glass doors of the patio. I use a soft damp cloth each evening to remove even the most miniscule particle of dust from their thick and lush green leaves. I begin to pride myself on being a diligent and caring nanny for my silent little coffee klatch.

On the fourth night of this edgy waiting game, there is a loud rap on my door. I open it to find two tough-looking men who give me the once-over as they saunter into my personal space. “We hear you got some juice and can help us out with a bit of business,” the spokesperson of the duo says snidely.

“Maybe,” I reply cautiously. “You know, guys, a phone call would have been nice before you decided to show up on my doorstep.” I can only hope that Peter is listening in tonight and not snoring on his couch in front of the television.

“Well, time is money,” the tough one snorts. “Are you as good as you say? Can you move some merchandise for us?”

“I’m good,” I brag, “but only if there is an adequate monetary incentive in the deal. What’s my cut and, to be specific, what am I bartering?” I’m going for an incriminating statement for Peter’s benefit.

Before the negotiations can continue, tough guy’s partner speaks up, “Hey, I know you. We were on the same cell block in Sing Sing. I was doing a nickel for a bodega robbery and you were in for forging something.”

I stare at this cretin’s face and nothing registers. There were over 1700 convicts residing in the Federal penitentiary when I was a guest of the state, and I had kept my head down and didn’t make nice with any of them. He is a virtual stranger to me, but I’ll take his word that he remembers me. It’s kind of hard not to with a face like mine.

“We can table this little reunion for later because we need to hammer out our present deal,” his partner snarls as he takes control of the conversation once more. “You can get 10% of the sale price, and not a dime more.”

I shrug my shoulders and grimace, and we continue to haggle like two wheeler/dealers hashing out the sale of a used car. I’m valiantly trying to stretch out the time so that Peter can ride in on his trusty Ford Taurus and save the day. Suddenly, stooge number two speaks up again. “Now I’ve got it. You’re Neal Caffrey, and the word on the street is you turned rat and are in bed with the Feds!”

Suddenly, I am backing up and putting my dining table between me and two predatory-looking animals moving in for the kill. I mean that literally because my accuser is now brandishing a wicked-looking stiletto blade in his fist.

“Look, fellas, I’m doing a little freelancing on the side,” I offer what I hope will fly. “You know how it is. You can take the man out of the crime world, but you can’t take crime out of the man.”

“Not buying it,” my intimidating assailant mumbles. “You’re a dead man, pal.”

We cautiously sashay around my dining table like kids playing musical chairs until they hit on the obvious fact that they can split up and box me in. I’m desperate at this point and home in on the more dangerous of the two brandishing that knife. On instinct, I grab feisty Athena and hurl her and her ceramic pot at my would-be killer’s head. My aim is pretty good and she smacks into his skull causing shards of pottery to disintegrate on impact. That takes him out of the game momentarily, but his partner picks up the torch, which, in this case, is that dangerous stiletto. Now I start throwing other ceramic-clad deities at my new attacker. Poseidon, Demeter, Hermes, and Artemis all sail through the air as he weaves and dodges and my little Greek warriors crash and burn on the floor. I’m down to delicate little Calliope when a stern voice reverberates through the room.

Unbelievably, another formidable goddess has come to my rescue. I see June standing in my doorway looking like an elegant vision in a magenta silk dressing gown trimmed with ostrich feathers and matching high-heel slip-on mules. She is holding a Colt King Cobra .357 Magnum Double Action revolver in a hand that is rock steady. “It really is a pathetic gesture to bring a knife to a gunfight, Gentleman,” she drawls out imperiously.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sometime later, Peter finally sails into the room with his own weapon at the ready. As usual, he is late to the party, but I cut him some slack. Perhaps traffic was heavy on the Brooklyn Bridge. He stands with his mouth hanging open as he takes in the scene. He spies me on the floor with a dustpan and brush in my hands while my landlady is seated sedately in a wingback chair looking like a sovereign perusing her realm. With her peacemaker nestled in her lap, she is disdainfully eyeing two men sprawled at her feet. One is holding a dishtowel to his bleeding forehead, and the other is wearing a set of my handcuffs that I keep around for practice. Peter, being an ungrateful cad, blurts out something stupid. “I trust that you have a permit for that canon, Mrs. Ellington.”

June simply raises one arched eyebrow and chooses not to entertain such insolence from one of her subjects. She rises to her feet and glides out of the room with dignified panache. Peter sighs and bows to a greater force as he watches her majestic exit. He then calls for backup to take my two determined would-be assassins into custody. After everything gets sorted out, he crouches beside me as I gently pick up pieces of broken green stems, torn and macerated leaves and blossoms, tiny slivers of wood bark, and tangled nests of sphagnum moss. Understandably, I find that my eyes have grown misty. “Need some help with that?” he asks gently.

“No thanks, Peter,” I say with a hitch in my voice. “This is very personal and something I have to do alone.”

~~~~~~~~~~

However, the next day, I do press Peter into service because he owes me. We make a frantic foray into a very specialized world, and try, at great expense I might add, to purchase new recruits for the Greek army. Rare orchids are definitely a niche market, so we have to visit many far-flung collectors and botanists in the tristate area. I had taken pictures of each sadly broken warrior before I gave them a fitting sendoff in an incinerator. It seemed like an appropriate gesture given their heroic demise.

By the time Peter and I decide to call it a very long day, we have amassed a plethora of striking flora that includes ethereal spikes of Dendrobiums, arcing sprays of Phalaenopses, trumpeted Cattleyas, and—well, you get the picture. To my discerning forger’s eye, they are identical clones of their predecessors, each with the same coloring, striae, and speckles. I think I may be able to pull off the switch. I couldn’t begin to find doppelgangers of the original containers, so I simply went with small upscale Waterford crystal ice buckets to add a bit of elegance to the new members of the militia that now adorn my dining table.

Mozzie strolls in two days later and he zeroes in on his pets before even bidding me a hello. He slowly circles my table several times and, with each rotation, his brow creases more deeply in contemplation. “It seems that there has been a few changes around here,” he murmurs ominously.

I valiantly try to deflect his intense scrutiny. “Yeah, I decided to spiff up your orchids by providing them with a much more elegant container. You can’t go wrong with classic and timeless Irish crystal.”

Now Mozzie is actually giving me the evil eye. “Neal, every orchid has a distinct personality,” he pontificates. I mentally agree with that statement because I lived with that temperamental bunch for almost a week before their untimely deaths. Thus, I don’t argue the point; I merely nod my head.

“Each container,” Mozzie continues, “was chosen with great care and with an eye to the enhancement of the plant’s personal identity. It was not a random act, by any means. How would you like to be dressed in homogenous bland attire that stifles your individuality?”

“Sorry, Moz,” I say contritely. “My bad!”

Mozzie, however, is not done, and his segue way into the arcane confuses me. “Neal, do you know anything about penguins?”

“Not much, other than they’re cute little guys who waddle around in tuxedos,” I admit.

“Well, let me educate you, mon frère. Anywhere in the Southern hemisphere of the world where large rookeries of penguins are found, there is a certain distinct phenomenon that can be observed in that species. Thousands of these flightless birds can be milling around together on some shore in the Galapagos or Antarctica with their mates and their families, but not one little offspring is ever misplaced or truly lost. A penguin parent knows instinctively who their baby chick is and can unerringly recognize it in a vast, seemingly endless ocean of black and white.”

I hold my breath because this is the moment of truth and I’m waiting for the ax to fall. It happens with Mozzie’s next sentence. “These are _not_ my orchids, Neal, but rather facsimiles of my babies. A father just knows his own and these are definitely not mine.”

The jig is up and it’s time for me to come clean. “No, Moz, they’re not the same ones that you originally left with me. Those brave souls fought the good fight and went out with a bang rather than a whimper. They actually saved my life and I appropriately mourned their passing following a battle that resembled the Trojan War.”

Mozzie looks skeptical, so I hype it up a bit. “Truly, Moz, they heroically left this world in a blaze of glory and you would have been so proud!”

My little bald friend crosses his arms and takes a seat. “Okay, Homer, let’s revisit _The Iliad_ so that I can understand exactly what that means!”

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: Persephone took first place and a blue ribbon at the annual Philadelphia Flower Show!


End file.
